


Owl in a Day’s Work

by Moonflower_Rose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco, Auror Ron Weasley, Banter, Case Fic, Flirting, H/D Erised 2020, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Innuendo, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Muggle Technology, Owls, Post-Hogwarts, Sexual Discussion and Propositioning in the Workplace, Unspeakable Harry, owl puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27789670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonflower_Rose/pseuds/Moonflower_Rose
Summary: Owls have vanished across wizarding London, but Auror Draco Malfoy is on holiday, so surely that’s someone else’s problem?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 38
Kudos: 312
Collections: H/D Erised 2020





	Owl in a Day’s Work

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WielkiOgien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WielkiOgien/gifts).



> Pan-sowa, I hope you enjoy this little story - season’s greetings!

Draco Malfoy woke on the first morning of his holidays in a cold rage.

He shouldn’t be awake. It wasn’t part of the itinerary. At 7.45am today he was scheduled to be asleep, and to remain so for several hours yet, sleeping off a champagne hangover from last night at Pansy’s (tick), before a light breakfast (fruit, a pastry, and a latte, ready and under stasis in his kitchen), a soak (no longer than ninety minutes in duration, coconut oil, organic goat milk, and a sprinkling of rose petals), and an international Portkey (precisely 2pm) to a Greek resort where he would linger, marinating in coconut-scented suntan oil, for two glorious weeks. 

His outfit was laid out on the valet in the bathroom (tick), his luggage was packed and assembled neatly by the front door (tick), and an elf service booked for a spring clean while he was away. The perfect schedule, revised a dozen or more times over the past several months as he counted down the days to this much-needed break.

Instead of that, he was awake, far too early and entirely against his will. He’d been in the middle of a frankly sinful dream wherein he was receiving a deep tissue massage from several well-oiled and scarcely clad members of the Australian National Quidditch Team, and it was a crime — literally, a _crime_ — to be roused from it. The dream was already vanishing, and Draco could hardly recall which of the Beaters precisely had been worshipping his calves, nor the exact shade of the tight, brown nipples of the Keeper whose thumbs had pressed firmly into the arch of his left foot. He’d never get back to it, now, not even if his mobile stopped ringing immediately and he went directly back to sleep.

His mobile was ringing. His mobile almost never rang. It was strictly for emergencies. Why was his mobile ringing?

Draco pushed his mulberry silk sleep mask up into his hair and looked around his still-darkened bedroom. There was no Ministry owl waiting with a scroll. No Patronus glowering at him from beside his bed. The phone continued to bleat _Oi! Malfoy! Oi! Malfoy!_ in Weasley’s infuriating voice. It was a mistake to have allowed Weasley to program the thing. When he was back from hols he planned to stuff the cursed device directly up the ginger git's arse.

Said git's name glowed on the small square screen as he lifted it to his ear.

“Are you dead,” Draco asked darkly.

“ _Of course I’m not dead, you posh git, how could I ca—_ ”

Draco pressed the end button viciously with his thumb and dropped the phone on his bedside table, then rolled over again and shut his eyes.

_Oi! Malfoy!  
Oi! Malfoy!  
Oi! Malfoy!  
Oi! Malfoy!  
Oi! Ma—_

With a noise of rage, Draco sat, picked up the phone, and flung it directly through his bedroom door and into the hallway beyond, briefly enjoying the sound of it clattering against the skirting boards even as it continued to yelp _Oi! Malfoy!_ as it flew. He wandlessly slammed the door closed, and added a Silencing Charm for good measure.

The bedroom was blessedly silent once more. Draco sighed. Rolled over, clasped the topmost pillow, and closed his eyes again. He pulled the eye mask down, and tried to recapture the dream — perhaps he could slip back into it after all…

“Auror Malfoy.”

“Holy fuck—!” Draco ripped the eye mask off, his wand in hand in seconds thanks to years of drills and training, and pointed dead in the face of whoever was now in his bedroom, mumbling directly into his ear.

Well. Perhaps not quite in the face. More like an inch above the papery forehead of what seemed to be an elf.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Bog,” said the elf. Draco stared at him, his heart still hammering. 

“Why?”

Bog shrugged. “Bog doesn't know such things as why Bog is. Bog was just Bog, when there wasn’t Bog before.”

Draco dropped his wand and rubbed his face. “Not — I mean, why are you here, in my house? I don’t know anyone with an elf anymore.”

Bog pushed an envelope onto the duvet. “Urgent message from the Ministry for Auror Malfoy.”

That shed no further light on why in Salazar’s name the elf was here. Why not an owl, or a Patronus? Why was _another bloody Auror_ not receiving this message, considering Draco was very clearly _on his hols_ and _not to be disturbed_.

With another sound of rage, Draco ripped open the seal on the envelope. Someone had _better_ be dead.

_Get your spotty arse to the office. Emergency. Next time pick up your phone, dickhead._

Helena’s tits. What the fuck had happened? Weasley knew better than to contact him on leave. They’d had a talk about it. They’d had several. Draco was in dire need of a break and Weasley had promised him there was nothing the department couldn’t handle without him while he was away. “Maybe someone really is dead,” Draco murmured, squinting at the elf again, who remained standing silently by the bed, staring at him.

“What do I do now, am I supposed to give you a treat?” 

Bog just looked at him with swampy eyes before vanishing without a sound.

“Fuck. Fucking fuck.” He would have to eat his breakfast now, rather than at 11, and depending on how long this took, he might have to scale back the bath to a maximum of thirty minutes. He’d need a hangover potion, since there was no chance of a lie-in anymore, and there was no doubt in his mind that he’d arrive in Spetses dehydrated and cranky, which was not how he wanted to start his holiday. His plan for dinner in a taverna by the quay where he would hopefully catch the eye of a sexy Athenian and be whisked onto a superyacht to be thoroughly rumpled would probably also need postponing. 

The blinding rage was back again.

* * *

He stepped through the Floo into the Atrium, and utter chaos. There were elves everywhere, and memos thick in the air like clouds of parchment insects. And then there were the birds. Pigeons, by the look, and pigeon shit just everywhere. Draco spelled a shield around himself just in time to avoid a spatter of it which dropped from directly above him. His coat was last season Givenchy, for fuck's sake.

“Unacceptable,” Draco muttered with fury, clearing a path through the muck with his wand as he struggled through the crowd to the lifts. Wix who were clearly less adept with charmwork held briefcases, and copies of the _Prophet_ over their heads protectively. “What the hell is going on?” 

The witch to his left was in a full-body Bubble Charm. “The owls, sir. They’ve disappeared.”

Draco looked at her incredulously, thrust forward into the cabin by the crowd behind them as the lift doors rolled open. “What? From the Ministry?”

“From everywhere,” said a wizard just ahead of him, spelling feathers from his robes. “Not an owl to be found in London, a magical one, at least. That’s what they’re saying.”

“Fuck,” he said under his breath, trying not to breathe in the combined pong of droppings and sweat too deeply. If the owls were gone, wizarding government was about to grind to a slow but certain halt. No wonder he’d been called in. This needed to be sorted quickly.

The lift stopped at Level 2, and Draco pushed his way out.

“Auror Malfoy, do you think this will be sorted out soon?”

Draco turned and gave his most reassuring smile to the witch in the bubble. “We’re on the case, not to worry.” The lift lurched off. Draco’s smile slid into a glare. 

Marching down the hallway, he found himself slightly disappointed that the usual authoritative clomp of his uniform boots was missing, as it would have emphasised the air of seething fury he was attempting to exude quite nicely. Sadly, he had chosen joggers and trainers, in a hurry to get in and hopefully back out again quickly, and Prada sneakers lacked the necessary stamp to match his mood. On the plus side, Weasley wouldn’t hear him coming, and if Draco slammed open his office door hard enough without forewarning, the git might even spill his tea on himself.

Right on cue, Draco whipped his wand at the Senior Auror’s office door and strode in without waiting.

“Fuck!” Weasley spluttered and pushed his mug onto the nearest flat surface, hot tea seeping into the front of his robe. Draco pulled the letter from the morning from his coat pocket and chucked it at Weasley’s head.

“First of all, I’ll have you know my arse is far from spotty — it’s perfect in every way. Poems have been written about it. Songs, even. I’ve heard a rumour of a sculpture. And secondly, my perfect arse should be somewhere hot and foreign, where I should be getting my equally perfect cock sucked by person or persons also hot and foreign.” Draco folded his arms over his chest and applied his best glare. “So this had better be good, _sir_.”

“Hello, Malfoy.”

Draco started almost as badly as Weasley had. “Jesus Christ, Potter. What are you doing here?” The man himself was leaning inadvisably far back in Weasley’s guest chair, jammed in the corner and ready to ambush a person, and looking thoroughly amused. Draco sniffed, and tried very hard not to let on that his heart was hammering. “Last I checked, you didn’t work for the Aurors anymore.”

“Do you check that often, Malfoy?” Potter said, with eyebrow raised. Draco wanted to slap the stupid look right off his witless face.

“Authorised personnel only in the Hub, Potter. I’ll get someone to escort you out. Golsby!”

Weasley waved off the Junior Auror who came promptly to the door. “Shut your trap, Malfoy. Harry’s consulting.” Potter lifted his visitor lanyard and waved it smugly in Draco’s direction. It was Draco’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“Consulting? On what? How to be rich and idle?”

“Course not Malfoy,” Potter said cheerfully, “that's what they’ve got you for.”

Draco gave him two fingers. “What could we possibly need a civilian consultant for—”

“Wouldn't say I’m a civilian,” Potter interrupted.

“Then what would you say you are?”

“Can’t.”

Draco smirked and checked his nails. “That's not how I’d pronounce it, but you might be onto something Potter. Seriously though, what do they pay you for?”

Potter let the legs of the chair down loudly. “Can’t say. Classified.”

“Classified?”

“Yep.”

Dick. “So you do work for the Ministry.”

“Can’t say.”

“You’re in Mysteries, then. We don’t have any other classified divisions.”

“Can’t say.” _Dick_.

“Fellas! As much as I’d usually enjoy this weird mating ritual of yours, I don’t have the time, so can we please all focus on the issue at hand, which is several thousand missing owls.”

“ _Can’t_ ,” Draco said, parroting Potter’s favourite word. “I’m on leave.”

“Well if you’re officially not working, Malfoy, then it's not appropriate for you to be in the Hub. Golsby!”

Weasley slammed both hands down on his desk, and upset his mug of tea a second time. Golsby appeared at the door again but was clever enough to leave immediately without asking any questions.

“ENOUGH! I don’t have time for this crap from either of you! We’re about forty minutes from being buried to our necks in pigeon shit, WizPost is non functional, there aren’t enough elves or other birds for hire no matter how much money we throw at the problem, and we’re on the cusp of a full blown crisis if Mungo’s can’t receive or send potions orders, not to mention the Wizengamot. I’ve got every Auror on duty to keep the peace, right down to the first year trainees. I need my best men on _finding the fucking owls_ , and that means you two knobheads.” Draco twisted his mouth, but managed to keep it shut. “Malfoy, Harry is consulting for tracing and hostage retrieval. _Yes_ , we’re considering the owls hostages at this stage until we know better. I know you’re meant to be on leave. I know you deserve it very much. I know you’re going to make me pay for calling you in, but please, for the love of Merlin, could you do that _after_ we’ve sorted out the fucking owl problem?”

Ugh.

Draco glared for as long as he dared at Weasley, then a bit more at Potter. “I’ll set up in Incident Room 7. I need to make some Floo calls to cancel my Portkey and hotel, and my elf service. Then I’m getting a cup of tea. Meet me in front of Seven in fifteen minutes Potter. You won’t be able to get in with just a visitor pass.”

* * *

Draco was stirring a generous sugar into his teacup when Potter slid into the tea room behind him. 

“I must admit, I’d have never thought I’d see the day you’d be slumming it in joggers, Malfoy.”

Draco pressed his lips together, and attempted not to catch the scent of Potter’s shampoo. His joggers were cashmere Tom Ford, and his hoodie was cashmere McQueen. Even his trainers were designer, but he suspected Potter knew that, considering he was obviously wearing Prada Chelsea boots himself, and over £600 a pair at that, not to mention the Balmain jeans. 

“Tell me Potter, what does the ‘B’ on your pocket stand for?”

“Bottom,” Potter said without hesitation, his hips cocked against the kitchenette worktop. Draco felt his face heating even as he rolled his eyes and firmly avoided looking too closely at Potter’s jeans.

“I suppose that’s to help you tell the difference between jumpers and trousers, then.”

Potter hummed noncommittally and maintained eye contact as he sipped his tea. 

Draco was flustered. “You’re a wanker.”

“Sadly, this is true.”

“What — no fawning lovesick himbo waiting for you at home?” He really wished he could stop himself from asking, but when had he ever had impulse control when it came to Harry Potter?

Potter shook his head and leaned across Draco to pluck an orange cream from the biscuit tin. His chest was warm where it pressed against Draco’s shoulder. “Don’t get a lot of opportunity for dating in my line of work.”

“Which is…?”

“Can’t say.”

“You really are a wanker.”

“I just said, didn’t I?”

He’d wondered many times what Potter was up to. His departure from the Aurors had occurred when Draco was barely through training and was a Junior sent to talk to old ladies feuding with neighbours over rose bushes, and all the crap jobs like filing and copying. Weasley never mentioned it, even when they became partners, and eventually became friendly. He did try to discreetly dig for information from time to time, even now that Weasley was promoted and was technically his boss, but the ginger git always gave him a certain look when he did, like he knew exactly what Draco was doing.

Draco added several orange creams to his own saucer, and walked out of the tea room fully expecting Potter to follow. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Why do you still pretend you can’t dress, Potter? Any idiot can see you’re in a small fortune of designer gear.” They passed the Senior Auror’s office. “Well. Maybe not any idiot. Weasley wouldn’t recognise designer even if Karl Lagerfeld were kicking him directly in his no good, freckled face.”

Potter made a sound like he was swallowing a laugh. “I’m not the one in head to toe cashmere.”

“That’s expected of me, though. I’m posh.” Draco levitated his cup wandlessly while he fished for his wand in his coat pocket. Givenchy wasn’t really the most appropriate attire for work. The pockets were too fussy, and his thigh holster was much more convenient. “And it’s hardly head to toe. My socks aren’t cashmere. Neither are my shoes, or my coat.” 

“No,” Potter hummed, cutting in front of him and opening IR7 without wand nor apparently the proper access charms, which was absolutely infuriating. Fucking Unspeakables. “What about your pants?”

Draco wasn’t wearing any. He’d been in a bit of a rush, and hadn’t planned to stick around long. “Wouldn't you like to know.” Cashmere underpants, honestly. He set down his cup on the conference table. “Right, how do you want to do this?”

“On the table,” Potter said with a waggle of his brows, and Draco gave him another two fingers for his trouble. “Seriously though, I’m happy for you to take the lead on this. I’m only the consultant, after all.”

“Alright.” Draco wasn’t going to argue with that logic. “This has happened all over London, but our best bet is starting the search here. It's convenient and probably the largest volume of birds were taken from the Ministry Owlery. We need to start a cross query on the archives for any complaints, legal cases and so forth that relate to owls, the post system, animal welfare and birds generally. I think we also need to get into the Ward Room and see what we can find in the surveillance records. We need to interview the Owl Keepers and find out who was on the overnight shift, and when the last time was that the owls were accounted for.”

“I agree. I’d suggest we start with programming the query for the archives, and the permits for the Ward Room. That stuff will take some time, we can do the Owlery while they’re processing.”

Draco nodded. “I’ll do the permits, since you allegedly don’t work for the Ministry and therefore can’t make any official requests.” A dimple creased Potter’s left cheek, which Draco tried very hard to ignore. “You remember how to use the Ledger, I assume?”

“Of course,” Potter said, pulling a quill from inside his robe. “Everything still in the credenza?”

“Of course,” Draco replied. “Get me a 2782 while you’re there.”

Potter opened the door of the cabinet at the front of the room and levitated a thick, red leather register and a sheaf of forms over to the table. Draco sat, Summoned a quill, and got to work on the 2782.

Some time later, Draco lifted his head with a small groan and stretched his neck and shoulders. Potter was directly opposite, the Ledger in front of him, and the search queries scrawled in a surprisingly neat script on the open page. A stack of parchment was growing beside it as the query results came in, and Potter was currently frowning down at one as he read, chewing on his lower lip and circling the occasional word or sentence. 

“Any luck?”

“Not really,” Potter said, looking up and doing some sort of twist and stretch himself. “There’s all sorts of weird shit that you’d expect, but nothing that sticks out as relevant to this situation.”

Draco gave his teacup a little poke and re-heated his tea, then did the same for Potter’s. “What do you think this is, domestic terrorism? Foreign interference?”

“Don’t think so,” Potter took a long sip from his cup. “There’s been nothing like this in intelligence for a long time, it doesn't seem to be politically motivated. I know we’re only getting started, but I’m not getting the sense this is anything to do with the government.”

“So what does that leave us? Mischief? Psychopathy? Someone wanting to do a major crime, something with Gringotts?”

“Animal rights activist.”

Draco twisted both halves of the orange cream until it came apart, and dipped the side without the buttercream into his tea. “What makes you say that?”

“Just a hunch. Nothing concrete right now, but there are a couple of things that stand out here in the results.” Potter pushed a page of notes toward the middle of the table, and Draco leaned forward for a better look. The smell of Potter’s shampoo once again teased his nostrils, which he once again stubbornly ignored. “There was an internship program about six months ago in Creatures, and at least one of the Muggle-born interns expressed concerns about the treatment of owls in the postal service. Never made any threats, but I just have a hunch.” What Potter called a hunch, Draco would bet good money was actually razor sharp instinct, and excellent intuition, which was unbelievably hot and annoying.

“I’m done with the 2782. I’ll pull the personnel file from HR and request any incident reports from the overnight guard.” He jotted down the name from Potter’s notes, and set the various documents off through the memo service. Draco cast a Tempus. “I’d estimate we have at least a half hour before we’re going to get a response for those. I should let Weasley know where we’re up to.”

“If you don’t mind, I might take the opportunity for a quick lunch with Hermione. Unless you want me to come with?”

“I don’t need a nanny, Potter,” Draco said with annoyance. “Perfectly capable of giving an update on my own.”

“You’re very cranky,” Potter said. “I think you need a holiday.”

Potter laughed and easily dodged Draco’s hex. “Back here in exactly an hour Potter or I’m leaving without you.”

“You’d never, you like me too much.”

“Get fucked, Potter.” Draco said over his shoulder, walking away.

“Is that an offer?” Potter called after him, but Draco refused to turn or answer, because his face was red again and he absolutely wouldn’t give Potter the satisfaction.

* * *

“Sorry about before.” 

Weasley waved him off. “Dont worry about it, I know how much of a bitch you can be when you’re hungover. You should have answered your phone, though, or I wouldn’t have had to sic Bog on you.”

“About the phone…” Draco put the smashed remnants of the Nokia on the desk between them, and Weasley sighed. 

“Are you kidding me, Malfoy? Requisitions will have my balls. This was one of the new ones.”

Draco glared. “Whatever could have happened to it? It’s almost as if an exemplary staff member who hasn’t had a break in a very long time was interrupted on their holiday! Clearly this person was pushed to the edge, Weasley. You should give them some latitude. Poor soul.”

Weasley rolled his eyes, and scooped the bits into an evidence bag. “It pains me sometimes to know that you’re my best.” 

Draco sniffed. “Well, that’s insulting.”

“Fuck off. You know you’re the best we’ve had.” 

“Only because Potter left.”

“Harry only left because he knew he could and the department would be in safe hands with you and me.”

Draco didn’t know what to say to that.

“Okay. I’m really sorry Malfoy. You know I wouldn't have brought you in if I could’ve avoided it. This is just a big problem, and we needed our best on it. I’ve got everyone else on detail trying to keep the peace, but I need you with Harry to track down whoever’s taken off with the owls, and get them back before something really bad happens. You’re the only one I’d trust with this.”

Draco sighed. He was always a bit weak for Gryffindor praise, not that he’d ever let on. 

“You couldn't have used a Patronus? That elf took a year off my life.”

Weasley didn’t look even slightly guilty. “I knew you’d be asleep and hungover, didn’t want to risk you snoozing right through. That’s why I phoned you. Only you smashed up the mobile.”

“I’m meant to be on leave,” Draco said, already knowing all the fight had gone out of him. Weak as piss. “Right now, the itinerary should have me in the middle of a very long bath.”

“I know. I’ll make it up to you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Come on, you big blouse. My shout at lunch.”

Lunch was actually a bit of a fraught exercise. The Atrium was in no better a state than it had been when Draco was passing through at a quarter past eight, although the corridors and offices in the various levels seemed relatively normal (aside from the double thickness of memos in the air). All of Creatures seemed to be there, doing their best to direct pigeons and elves alike, with a team from Dispatch set up at a makeshift mail processing station in front of the memorial fountain. Their choices were to brave their way through it, in order to get out of the Ministry and have a chance at some decent nosh (which would, on the downside, mean they’d be forced to make their way back through the chaos and muck again when they were done), or stay in and brave the equally daunting prospects in the Refectory bain marie. As much as Draco would have liked to inflict Weasley on Hawksmoor, they were better off getting this done quickly. Even if it did mean a leathery and lukewarm lasagne and wilted garden salad.

“So we’re going to check the central wards and see if anything pinged, interview the Owl Keepers and see if we can find anything residual there, and then head off to speak with the only suspect we have so far.”

“Do you need me to send through the preliminary interviews for the Keepers?” Weasley said, holding open the Refectory door for Draco. He shook his head.

“No need. Already pulled them, and had a quick go through. I’ve made some notes for Potter and I to guide the secondary interview, if the Keepers can manage to stop their weeping long enough to be intelligible.”

Weasley snorted, and headed for a table. “What do you fancy?”

Draco’s eyes drifted involuntarily over to where Potter was sitting with Weasley’s own wife, a heavy-duty Privacy Charm thick around them. He let his eyes slide past them to the bain marie, reluctantly, and considered his options. “Rendang and coconut rice, with a roti.” When Draco looked back at him, Weasley had a knowing smirk on his face, and Draco felt a bit hot.

“Right-o. Back in two shakes.”

The curry was tepid, and too salty. The rice was dry, and the roti rubbery. Draco poked at it sadly, while Weasley inhaled his jacket potato smothered in beans. 

He wanted French flax linen hotel sheets, and the prickle of a slight sunburn that would darken his skin just enough to cause his hair and eyes to glow like a Veela. He wanted fresh oysters, and moussaka, and crisp but expensive casual shirts unbuttoned at the throat and rolled up at the elbows. He wanted olives, and cold white wine, and the salt smell of the Myrtoan sea. He had at least three paperbacks to get through and some new Muggle thing Pansy had got him called an iPod, that was filled with music she called ‘chillout electronica’. He wanted horseback riding in the hills. He wanted fresh goat cheese on warm flat bread. He wanted dolmades and hot, fresh tyropita. He wanted a sunbed on Vrelos Beach. He wanted honey-soaked baklava on the terrace of his hotel after a sweaty night of fucking. He really, really wanted the sex.

He was going to have to cancel all of it, each item on his carefully constructed and much looked forward to itinerary being crossed out instead of ticked.

“So. When are you going to get over yourself and fuck him, anyway?”

Draco coughed on a mouthful of desiccated rice. “I — what? What are you— we’re not—”

“Get under him or get over him, Malfoy, that’s my advice.”

Draco stared at him. Obviously, Weasley was referring to Potter, and yes, perhaps Draco had been staring at him a bit while thinking about his ruined holiday, but that was purely an accident. 

“Auror Malfoy.”

Bog had materialised silently beside him while Draco was distracted.

“Argh! Jesus, Bog! What is it?”

Bog handed him a note.

_Personnel records, incident reports, in IR7 now. Form 2782 processing, priority Orange, ETA 2pm._

“Could this not have been a memo?” Draco asked in exasperation. Weasley was sniggering into a forkful of beans. Bog just looked at him and eventually vanished.

“Ah, Bog. I asked for him especially.” Draco glared at him. What a prick. “You know, he can’t actually tell you, right?”

Draco stirred his disappointing curry around distractedly. “Who, Bog?”

“Harry,” Weasley said. “He’s been Bound, so he can’t say anything much about what he does to anyone. Physically can’t.”

Draco felt both brows climbing. That was as much as confirming he was an Unspeakable, then. “You seem to know all about it.”

Weasley shrugged. “I’m his emergency contact. You know, next of kin. In case he gets splattered, or something.” Draco looked over at Potter again, involuntarily. Potter was a stupid git, but he certainly hoped he wasn’t going around doing things that might cause him to get splattered. 

“Honestly mate, just pull yourself together and ask him for a drink.”

Draco wasn’t going to dignify that with a response.

* * *

Potter was waiting for him back at the incident room when he returned from lunch. “Ready to hit the Owlery?”

“Yeah,” Draco said, still feeling a bit wrong-footed from Weasley’s comments over lunch. “Did you look over the interview summary?”

“Yeah,” Potter waved a sheaf of parchment at him. “I’m all set if you are.” Draco nodded and started to shrug back into his coat, when he heard a scoff. He looked at Potter, who was looking back at him with disbelief. “Are you really going out dressed like that? To the Owlery? Famously filthy and covered in shit?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’ve cast an Impervius on my clothes, it’s not my first week Potter. I’ve been charmed to the back teeth since I got here this morning, and in case you haven’t noticed, the shit isn’t confined to the Owlery just at the minute.”

“Right, protect the cashmere, sure,” Potter gave him a very thorough look over. “That’s one issue. The other — not sure how to put this delicately…I can see the full outline of your cock.” He looked down pointedly and added, “And your balls.”

Draco flushed, a full-bodied thing. Helga’s tits. “I told you I was in bed when I was called in. And on my holidays. Forgive me if I didn’t have time for knickers. And also, no one's forcing you to look.”

Potter looked again. “You kind of are. No time for pants, but I note you seem to have had time to do your hair?”

Givenchy didn’t deserve the rough handling Draco was currently giving his, in his hurry to cover himself up. “Didn’t I tell you to get fucked already?”

“I’m still waiting for confirmation that you were offering, Malfoy.”

Draco snatched up various papers, and marched out the door. Potter could follow him, or be left behind.

Potter caught up with him a few paces down the hall.

“What’s your take on the incident reports?”

Potter adjusted his glasses and thumbed through some of the pages he was still holding. “Shift change at midnight, everything went as usual, all owls accounted for. Three had been checked out for overnight deliveries and were expected back in the morning, but the rest were in the roost where they should’ve been. There were only two Keepers on Gamma shift, that’s midnight to six, and they were both on the lower deck for most of the shift doing meal prep.” Here Potter shuddered, presumably at the thought of what that must entail. “Both claim they didn’t notice anything particular, other than a particularly stiff wind at around 2.30am. Apparently it wasn’t unusual enough to prompt a roost check, because the owls were only found to be missing about an hour before Alpha shift arrived at 5.45am.”

Draco pushed the button to call the lift. “Right, so you’re thinking focus on the ward record between two and three, then?”

“Yep,” Potter gestured for Draco to alight the lift first. “If we’re lucky, that wind will be something, and if not, we can rule that out and look through the rest after.”

The lift juddered as it rose. “The Owl Keepers should be quick. I’d say we’ll be done by the time the Ward Room permits are ready. How long do you think you’ll need in there?”

Potter was leaning with his hips cocked again. He was frowning down at the notes, so Draco took a moment to appreciate the way his lazy posture made Potter’s hips and thighs look even more firm and delicious than usual. “Probably less than an hour if you’re willing to lend me some magical muscle?” Draco tore his eyes away from Potter’s waist and found himself being watched. Potter’s eyes were unfairly green, really, nearly illegally pretty, with ridiculous black lashes like some sort of fictional stud, a rakish Barbara Cartland hero who was aching to ravish the—

“Hmm?” Draco shook himself. He’d gotten quite lost.

“I said we’re here, Malfoy.”

Draco coughed. “Of course we are Potter, don’t be tedious.” He led the way out of the lift with his head held high, and walked directly to the little lean-to that served as an office for the Owl Keepers. Despite the openings high in the eaves, where the owls would come and go, the place smelled strongly of bird shit and oaty straw, with an underlying ferrous scent of blood, no doubt from their feed. The office itself was stuffy, and crammed to its limits with red-eyed Owl Keepers, some still sobbing into ragged tissues. “Merlin preserve us,” Draco muttered under his breath, before forcing his most comforting smile, and making the introductions.

As expected, the interviews took very little time to complete. There wasn’t much to tell, though Potter asked all manner of questions of the Gamma shift Keepers, like whether they noticed any unusual odors, did they feel this or that sensation in their magic at any point, and was there a taste of fennel or toadflax? They climbed the ladders to the topmost rafters and took samples of the residual spell residue, which seemed on the surface to be the basic, expected owl magic that anyone would find in a large Owlery, as well as the standard enchantments for owl-keeping. 

“No breakthrough here,” Potter said quietly, leaning close to Draco’s ear. “I do think I feel _something_ , a swell of magic of some kind, but I can’t quite place it. Doesn’t feel Dark, or unusual. It feels like…” Potter trailed off, as if unsure how to describe it, and instead collected several feathers from the straw and beams. “This will help with my Tracing Charm.” He gestured with his chin at the cluster of Keepers, watching them from the door of the lean-to. “We should get going. Nothing more we can gain here.”

Bog appeared in the lift, just as Draco was turning the lever to take them back down to Level 2. “Auror Malfoy.” Draco started and lurched right into Potter’s chest, his hands spreading across pleasantly firm pectorals. 

“Fucking hell, Bog! Wear a bell, would you?”

Bog stared at him, holding a purple memo in one spindly hand. “Bog is not dog, nor cat. Bog is Bog. Why should Bog wear a bell?”

Draco snatched the note from Bog, shaking off Potter’s warm, large hands, which had gently clasped him by the biceps when he’d stumbled. “Hello, Bog,” Potter said cheerfully, but Bog apparently was no more impressed by Potter than he was Draco, and promptly disappeared again without further comment. “He seems nice.”

“Creepiest living being in wizarding London,” Draco said, folding the note into his pocket. “Permit’s done. We can go directly to the Ward Room now.” He cranked the lever down to Level 9 instead of 2, and refused to meet Potter’s eyes. His body had felt rather lovely pressed up against Draco’s. It was becoming harder to ignore his attraction to Potter, who definitely had not been helping with his constant innuendo through the morning. Fancying Harry Potter was a bad idea, though _why_ exactly was starting to become more and more difficult to recall. He forced himself to remember. Draco would get attached. Potter would get bored of him. They’d fight. Potter would leave, Draco would be ruined for other men forever. Potter was just a flirt, anyway, he’d watched it in action a dozen times before. He was just friendly, it was just banter. It was Potter’s natural and innocent way of getting people on-side. Nevermind that with Draco, it skewed more towards bickering, but it was the same sort of thing. Getting a crush on Potter was stupid and absolutely pointless. He must ignore the flirting and concentrate on solving the case, so he could re-book his Portkey, and be checking in to The Poseidonion at the earliest possible moment.

Potter led the way when they reached Mysteries, ushering Draco down the stairs which led to Level 10 and the courtrooms, then down another to Level 11. They each pressed their wands to the heavy iron door, and the access permits activated after a long, considered moment, allowing the door to swing open on creaking, aged hinges. The vibration of the ward magic was enough to rattle his teeth and set every hair on end, and Draco could see Potter grimace at the sensation as well, from his peripheral. The magic felt very old, and very, very powerful, and the room seemed to shimmer with it. “This way.” Potter touched Draco’s elbow lightly, and directed him towards a spot that, to Draco, seemed exactly like any other in the vast room. “Just here.”

Draco fiddled with his wand, as Potter did a brief circuit of the room, his fingertips barely brushing the glowing ward field. “What do you need me to do?”

“Not too much,” Potter said, returning to stand just beside Draco. “I’ll cast, but if you can add your magical energy to it, it’ll allow me to put a lot more punch behind it and find what we need faster.” He turned to face Draco. “Ever done this before?”

“Once,” Draco said, but that had been a very different experience. He’d been with Mother, and they were resetting the Manor wards. Even then, it had been unsettling to have someone else touch his magic that way, even someone he trusted and loved — he had no idea what this would feel like. The wards were older, the job was bigger, and there was the small matter of his unrequited infatuation. 

“Okay,” Potter said, ever the teacher. “You’ll need to take off your coat and hoodie, then I want you to stand right where you are with your feet slightly apart, and your arms loose beside you.” Draco did as he was told, shaking the coat from his shoulders and setting it to hover just away from them, and did the same to his jumper. He could feel Potter’s eyes on him as he arranged himself in the requested pose, the fine hairs on his arms prickling with it.

“Is this how you want me?”

Potter didn’t say anything in response, but moved behind Draco until his chest was just touching Draco’s back, and brought his arms around to loosely clasp Draco’s wrists. It took everything he had not to shudder. “A little more relaxed — that’s it. Open your stance slightly more. Perfect, Draco.” And this time he couldn’t entirely suppress a shiver. Potter was all but whispering into his ear. “You know, this is a very skimpy vest.”

“I told you. I was in a hurry.” Draco’s voice was embarrassingly rough. Dear god.

“And on your holidays, yes,” Potter said, his breath tickling the hair at the base of Draco’s neck. “You mentioned.” Potter’s fingers flexed round his wrists again. “Right, I’m about to start. Just try to stay relaxed just like this, and we should be done in no time.”

There was no reason why this should be so erotic, Draco told himself sternly, as he tried to keep limber and calm. Potter smelled like chocolate, what of it? He’d lost the small Seeker’s build from their school days, and was now something bulkier, and rougher. Who cared? Not Draco Malfoy. Potter’s magic felt effervescent, like being submerged in fizzy water. He looked at Draco now and then like he might like to take off all his clothes and put his hands everywhere underneath. He was terribly warm, and had Draco mentioned the thing about the chocolate? Oh yes, he had. Mouthwatering, horrible chocolate that nobody in their right mind would want to put their mouth all over. Disgusting. Terrible. No good at all. 

It felt like forever before Potter finished. When his hands let go of Draco’s wrists, finally, he felt abruptly cold, and then the embarrassment of being half-hard set in. Draco quickly Summoned his hoodie and coat again, throwing them on as fast as he could manage while remaining faced away from Potter. “Any joy?”

Potter made a strange noise. “Interesting question. Let’s say yes. No sign of Dark magic. There’s a rapid build then drop at 2.23am, as suspected. The wards didn’t stop it, there was no ill intent behind it, and I still can’t quite place the actual spell, but it’s nothing harmful. The drop is consistent with the absence of hundreds of owls all disappearing at once. Not Apparition or a Portkey, they seem to all have gone through the dispatch ports, but I’m not sure they were flying. I did get a trace amount of magical residue though, enough that we’ll be able to confirm a match with a suspect, when the time comes. I think this really upholds the theory that it’s an animal activist, above anything else.”

“Agreed,” Draco said, pulling some parchment from his pocket again. “Can you use that to pinpoint a location.”

Potter grinned. “What do you think I’m good for, Malfoy?”

Draco could imagine a great many things Potter may be good for, unfortunately, and many of them crossed his mind as he watched Potter kneel on the stone floor of the Ward Room, a map of England unfolding in front of him, and a small glowing globule of magic hovering just above it. 

“Dartmoor.” Potter stood, dusted off his knees, and re-folded the map. The magic sample he capped in a small glass phial, and placed in his pocket. “Side-Along okay?”

“You can’t Apparate out of the Ministry, Potter, and especially not from the Ward Room.” Potter just looked at him. “Don’t tell me. _You_ can in fact do this, but you can’t tell me how.” Potter opened his mouth, but Draco waved him off. “Nevermind, Potter. Let’s just get this done.” He looped an arm through Potter’s and ignored the smell of chocolate. “If you Splinch me, I’ll have your balls. If you damage my coat, I’ll kill you. Understood?”

All Draco heard was Potter’s laughter, and then they were gone.

* * *

Potter’s wand was tracking the magical signature. Draco was using his own to sweep the area for threats, of which there were none so far, unless you counted the peat bogs, or the incessant wind, which frankly, Draco did, particularly after the third time he stumbled. An old barn was just ahead, and Draco could detect a massive, but benign magical presence, consistent with a very large number of Ministry owls. 

They stopped a little way from the barn, and crouched behind a shard of granite which thrust itself like a stone dagger from the moor. “How do you want to go in?” Draco squinted at the old building, assessing. “Personally I don’t think we need to go in too hard, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful.”

“Standard approach tactic, non-lethal force, contain and apprehend. You good to lead?” Draco nodded. “Right. I have your back. Shall we?”

There were no defensive wards around the barn, only a series of environmental spells, warming charms, wind blockers, rain shields and the like. It took no effort for Draco to slip through a gap in several rotten planks, and quietly round a large bale of hay. Owls were everywhere, on every beam and turret, watching them silently as they softly approached the only other human occupant, who was sitting in a pile of straw in the middle of the barn, looking up at the owls above her.

“Verity Parsnip.” Draco recognised her from the personnel file, and quickly disarmed her as she started and dropped her wand. 

“Oh, Christ alive, it’s Harry Potter,” Verity’s eyes were wide with shock. “And Auror Malfoy, oh my days. I’m in such trouble now!”

“Ms Parsnip, you do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but I must warn you that if you fail to mention any fact which you rely on in your defence in court, your failure to take this opportunity to mention it may be treated in court as supporting any relevant evidence against you. If you do wish to say anything, what you say may be given in evidence.” Draco gestured around them. “Did you abduct these owls?”

“Oh god,” Verity moaned into her hands. “This was all a horrible mistake. I mean, I did do it, I definitely am the one who took the owls,” Verity gestured around herself, where the unmistakable evidence was roosting. “But I didn’t quite mean to do _this_ exactly. I only meant to Summon the small ones, and leave the bigguns, like the Snowy owls and the like.”

“Sorry,” Potter looked stunned. “Did you say ‘Summoned’?” Verity nodded miserably. 

“Like _Accio_ ,” Draco clarified. “You _Accio_ ed the owls.”

“Yes,” she said unhappily. “But I think I was a bit excited, and I ended up _Accio_ ing the whole lot.”

Draco made a pained sound, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Potter crouched down beside the girl, who was looking decidedly wobbly. “What were you trying to do with the little owls?”

“They’re too small to be carrying such large parcels!” The words burst forth along with a few fat tears. “You should see how their little bodies suffer! It’s cruel, magic-folk are horrible to creatures and the owls included. I was just trying to rescue the smallest ones, I promise. I didn’t mean to do treason or anything — I promise!” Verity was howling properly now, and Potter put his arm around her reassuringly, pressing a crisp handkerchief into her hands. 

“It’s alright, Verity. I can’t say you’re not in a world of trouble, but I’ll make sure everyone understands you had good intentions. I’ll vouch for you,” Harry smiled at her warmly. “I’m the famous Harry Potter, so they’ll listen to me. No Tower of London for you this time.” She gave a watery chuckle, and Draco’s heart did strange things again, as did his belly, and his legs, a little. “Auror Malfoy needs to take a sample of your magic, and then we have to bring you in. Do we have your consent?”

She nodded, and Draco set about taking the sample and explaining what would happen next, while Potter took inventory of the owls, and sent a Patronus back to the Ministry. Before long, several Aurors and all of the Owl Keepers arrived to begin the monumental task of getting the owls safely back to the Ministry. Then Draco and Potter brought her in.

* * *

Draco sipped from his teacup, reading through the near-complete report on the desk in front of him. His neck ached, and the first thing he planned to do when he got home was to draw a long bath, to be enjoyed with a bag of crisps and a cold glass of prosecco. Perhaps several. Verity Parsnip had been processed, questioned, and released on bail, and the owls were safely re-interred in the Owlery under the watchful eyes of the Keepers. A team of cleaners would work all night clearing the gunk from the Atrium, and a small fortune had been paid by the Bursary to several house-elf services. 

There was a rap at the partition, and Draco looked up to see Weasley leaning against the divider. “How’d you get on?”

“Well enough,” Draco said, leaning back in his chair and stretching. “I feel sorry for the girl, but it looks like Granger will let her off relatively lightly. Thanks for that, by the way.” Weasley shrugged.

“What’s the use of being married to the Chief Warlock if you’re not willing to abuse the privilege from time to time?” Draco smirked. “So, _owls_ well that ends well, eh?” Weasley looked so pleased with himself, that Draco only shook his head, rather than say any of the snide remarks he would otherwise have liked to. “Come on, that was pretty good!”

“Leave me alone so I can finish this paperwork. I want to get home as soon as. I have a holiday to re-start tomorrow.”

Weasley clapped a warm hand on Draco’s shoulder. “I know you’ll make me pay for this for — well, the rest of my life, but thank you again Malfoy. I’ve already had HR re-credit your leave balance, and you’re on paid exemption for the next fortnight.”

Draco stared at him in surprise. “I — thank you.”

Weasley squeezed his shoulder once and then pushed off. “You deserve it. Have good holiday, Draco. Oh, almost forgot.” He fished something small and grey from the pocket of his robes. “Reqs have sent up your new phone.” A horrible, elderly clam-shell phone was plonked in the middle of his report. “They said next time they’ll take the cost out of your pay.”

“Night, Ron,” Draco called absently, Weasley already halfway down the hall to his own office. He turned the phone over in his hands. God, it was dreadful. Requisitions were pricks. Weasley was tolerable. And tomorrow he would be on his way to Greece. Draco slipped the phone into his own pocket, and hurried to finish his paperwork so he could get home already.

* * *

Draco was up to his neck in hot water, heavy with coconut oil and organic goat milk, and a liberal sprinkle of dusky rose petals, when Bog appeared in the steam of his bathroom.

“Salazar’s tits!” At least half his prosecco spilled into the water. “Bog! What the hell are you doing here?”

Bog’s eyes betrayed nothing. “Message for Auror Malfoy.”

Draco barely had time to wipe his wet hands on a nearby washcloth, before Bog was gone and the folded note was fluttering to the floor. His Seeker skills were not completely rusty, and he managed to snatch it up before it fell victim to a puddle of sparkling wine on the tile beside the tub.

“I will kill,” Draco seethed, slotting a finger through the envelope flap with fury, “every last one of them if I’m being called in again.”

_I’m not foreign but I’ve been told I’m hot._

_Potter_

What?

Someone was knocking on his door. Draco was hard pressed to think of how things could get any worse, as he levered himself out of the bath and into a towel, and stomped, dripping and almost nude, to answer the door.

Harry Potter on the other side was not at all what he was expecting.

“You said this morning. You were meant to be on hols. I can’t take you abroad, but I can help you with the other bit.”

Draco stared at him. “The what?”

“You said you were meant to be somewhere hot and foreign, getting sucked off by someone hot and foreign.” He shrugged, and smirked at Draco, letting his eyes wander down his very much bare chest. “I’m here to help with that bit.” Draco truly didn’t know how to respond, and he suspected his mouth was open rather rudely. Potter stepped forward slowly, and hooked his forefinger into the towel around Draco’s hips. “Is this okay?” Draco nodded mutely, and then Potter was kissing him, and everything else dissolved into a chocolate-scented blur of pleasure for several long minutes.

Potter pulled back eventually, and Draco realised he was pressed against the wall of his flat, the front door wide open for anyone to see him in all his glory, with particular bits of glory tenting lewdly at the front of his towel.

“Potter. You just kissed me.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“On my mouth.”

“Yep.”

“With your mouth.”

“I’ve been told that’s how it’s generally done.”

“Did you have a fit? Are you alright? Should we Floo Mungo's? Have you noticed a recent fever or—”

Potter leaned against him, laughing against his neck. “I did it on purpose, you idiot.” He began to mouth gently at Draco’s throat, which felt like literally the best thing that had ever happened to him. Draco struggled for breath.

“Did you know it was me?” 

Potter pulled back. “Did I—? Of course I knew it was you. I like you, you bloody idiot!”

Draco was grateful for the wall. Potter was running his fingertips gently over his clavicle, and it was doing things to his knees. “You like me.”

He felt Potter’s exasperated groan right through his chest. “Ron told me it’d be hard. I knew it would, but I didn't expect this.”

“Well it’s not hard yet Potter, but if you gave it a proper go—”

Draco was silenced for another long series of minutes, after which he couldn’t possibly claim that it wasn’t absolutely, positively, rock hard.

“I like you, Draco Malfoy. You’re posh and bitchy, and extremely confident, and good at your job, and you wear clothes that cost more than you earn in a year, and all I want to do is take them off you.”

He broke the kiss, or tried to — his mouth seemed glued to Potter’s neck, and his hands were already halfway up the back of his robe. “What are you doing for the next two weeks, Potter?”

He pulled back just far enough for Draco to see that sly grin again, with a hint of dimple. Ouff. “You, probably.” Draco smiled. Perhaps his holidays were off to a promising start after all.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of HD Erised 2020; thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥


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